


his mouth is heaven

by blue_spruce



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spruce/pseuds/blue_spruce
Summary: It took a long time for them to learn how to talk to each other. For a while, at first, they didn't talk at all.





	

It’s dark when Bucky wakes up. His internal clock says more than two hours have passed; less than four. He glances to the right without shifting the weight of his body. The clock on the table next to the bed confirms he’s correct.

Little strips of light are slipping in through the blinds, layering themselves over the ceiling and the walls, cut by the lacy wrought-iron window bars. Bucky lies still with his eyes open and listens: tree frogs outside the open windows, laughter from below, fainter still the pulse of music driving on and on. Under everything, the sea crashing very quietly against the shoreline.

Sam breathes beside him, steady and slow. Bucky watches him sleep and thinks about Steve; wishes he could paint like Steve, could draw Sam lying here in the dark, the way the tiny bit of light escaping into the room is catching the muscled line of Sam’s back every time he breathes, his legs lost in shadow.

The music changes. Traffic sounds drift on the hot night air. Bucky moves, finally, sliding slowly out of the bed. It’s hot in their hotel room. Bucky’s t-shirt is sticking to his skin. Sam had turned the air off when they first checked in, which Bucky knows is because of him. He’s always cold. Something about the ice. The endless cycles of freezing and thawing, he guesses.

He stands by the window for a while, tucked in the corner of the room with his back to one wall and his shoulder against the other, and watches the street below. The red tail lights of the cars, the people walking.

Time passes. The air is hot and still. The sounds are the same. Sam breathing. The tree frogs, the laughter, the music. The sea.

 

Sam moves in bed, rustling the sheets. Bucky’s attention shifts abruptly, an expansion and contraction all at once: from the world outside to the one within, from the narrow field of view through the blinds to the sudden wider remembrance of self. His eyes track across the room. Sam’s arm is reaching across the bed.

Bucky pushes off the wall and crosses back to the bed. He watches Sam startle into awareness when the mattress dips. “Shh,” he says, not quite a whisper, “it’s me.”

Sam turns his head and blinks, his eyes gleaming in the low light. Bucky lays down next to him, scooting close, closer. He’s not really thinking of anything when he reaches out to run a finger against Sam’s goatee; touching just to touch, just because he can. Sam blinks again, then rolls from his stomach onto his side, opening a little more space between them.

There are a lot of nice things in Bucky’s life, these days. Kissing – kissing is very nice. He likes the softness of it. He likes all the different kinds of softness: his lips against Sam’s lips, his tongue on Sam’s lips, the shocking hot slide of Sam’s tongue against his own. How Sam will touch his body when they kiss in bed, firm but gentle. He likes the way it starts to take over, just like something he’d trained for over and over until it became second nature. Likes that he can trust his body to do what feels good, follow his body into wherever it wants to take him.

Bucky presses his mouth to Sam’s, cataloguing as he does every change: his heartbeat’s slow increase in tempo, the heat sparking under his skin. He still has his thumb against Sam’s jaw, his index finger curled under his chin, and he finds himself stroking his thumb in small movements along the edge of Sam’s goatee. Sam closes his eyes and makes a noise low in his chest when Bucky opens his mouth. He shifts closer, working one leg between Bucky’s. His skin is hot where he was pressed against the sheets; Bucky’s hand is spread against his chest, now, and he feels sweat under his fingers.  

 

There are lots of things Bucky has learned about Sam. This makes sense. They’ve spent a lot of time together. Some of it Sam told him in little chunks; the stuff from when Sam was a kid, the stories from when he was in the Air Force. Some of it Bucky just figured out on his own. It took a long time for them to learn how to talk to each other. For a while, at first, they didn't talk at all.

Sam is rocking against him, now, and Bucky can feel the hard length of Sam’s cock rubbing against his belly. His hand on Sam’s chest slides down his side, over his ribs and down to his ass. He pulls Sam in close, and they’re in it for real now, moving with purpose. Sam is sliding his hands up under Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky knows he wants to be skin to skin.

Bucky smiles against Sam’s mouth. He wants that too.

 

They separate, briefly. Bucky pulls off his shirt, then his shorts, then his boxers. Sam lies there and watches, his expression lost in the darkness. When Bucky is naked, he rolls back to how he was before, stretched out next to Sam.

“I can’t remember what comes next,” he says, because he knows it will make Sam laugh. He reaches down and wraps his hand around Sam’s cock, strokes once, gently. “You’ll have to show me.”

He’s right; Sam laughs, soft, almost under his breath. He hums a note of agreement into Bucky’s mouth. His fingers find Bucky’s cock, finally, teasing light around the head, and Bucky sighs. His eyes shut for a moment that stretches out slow and sweet.

 

It’s quiet, after. Inside and out. The air is humid and smells of sex and sweat. Bucky’s eyes are closed again. He listens to Sam move next to him, rustling into a comfortable position.

“Wake me up in the morning when you get up,” Sam says. “Okay?”

Don’t leave me here alone, he means.

Bucky doesn’t open his eyes. “Sure,” he says. He turns his hand over on the sheet. The metal slides easy over the fabric. 

It only takes a second for Sam to lace their fingers together. Just like he expected.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Saying Your Names," by Richard Siken.
> 
> Come [talk to me](http://blue--spruce.tumblr.com/ask) about these guys. Pleeeeease.


End file.
